Nanny by Christina Skye Page B

about eight minutes ago.” Her gorgeous, rail-thin assistant smiled grimly. “Here’s the authority you requested in the employee workplace privacy issue. Also, Senator Winslow’s office has called twice to confirm your dinner tonight. Eight o’clock at the Fairmount. I told them it was firm, but they want to hear it directly from you. Pushy people, even though they try to be polite about it.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll call them back.” Cara slid the padded envelope into her already crowded briefcase.
    It was only after the door closed that she saw the small box on the floor under her desk. About the size of a cell phone, it was wrapped with brown paper and plain white string. Her name was typed on a label with the return address of the bridal shop where she and the girls had gone to look at dresses.
    Probably some additional samples of trim for her to consider.
    But when Cara pulled off the wrapping, her face went white. Inside the box was a single fragment of paper, torn from what appeared to be an old piece of stationery. There was one line of text on the sheet.
    May 12, 1986. Los Reyes Clinic. Remember.
    The words struck Cara like a physical blow. This time the message wasn’t about how she would die. In some ways, it was worse.
    Moving like a sleepwalker, she shoved the box into her briefcase. Someone knew. After all these years, someone
knew.
    Voices echoed down the hall. She looked at the box resting on top of the broken pieces of her daughter’s gift. She didn’t have time to fall apart. She had to think, to act with her head,
not
her heart, or she would hurt everyone she loved.
    She had hoped this day would never come, but now it had.
    Slowly Cara stood up. She cleared her desk by habit, closed her desk drawers and locked them, then picked up her briefcase. By the time she reached the door, she had made a decision that no woman should ever have to make.
    Â 
    â€œSenator Winslow’s office.”
    Cara sat tensely in her car, trying to stay calm. “Hello, Margo, it’s Cara.”
    â€œWell, it’s about time. The Great Man has been pacing around his office for the last hour, and every three minutes he comes out to see if you’ve called yet.” Tate Winslow’s veteran secretary laughed. “Since he’s due out again any second, I’ll put you right through.”
    Cara heard a
click,
and the deep voice of the man she loved filled the air. “Don’t tell me something’s come up again. You promised you’d pick out a dress tonight, Counselor, and I’m holding you to that.”
    No wonder he was called The Voice. Cara loved the rich bass roll of his voice and the emotion he’d never been afraid to show.
    He would make a wonderful president, she thought numbly.
    â€œWe’ll talk about the dress tonight, Tate. First I need to speak to you. Since I’m near your apartment, I was hoping you could meet me a little early.” She prayed he wouldn’t hear the lie.
    â€œThat’s the best offer I’ve had in months.” His voice fell. “If you’re planning to spend the night, it will be the best offer I’ve had in a decade.”
    Cara tried to ignore the sharp stab of desire, mixed as it always was with the ache of tenderness. They were so perfect for each other—both overachievers, both products of tense households ruled by demanding mothers. Of course, Tate’s home had been on an exclusive street in Pacific Heights and Cara’s in a run-down row house near the Oakland docks. Tate had received a new BMW for his high school graduation, while Cara had received a bill for the first of many college tuition payments.
    She closed her eyes.
Forgive me, Tate.
    â€œHoney, are you okay?” Tate Winslow’s voice hardened. “I heard about the Costello appeal. Has something happened? If so, I’ll send someone to—”
    â€œI’m fine, Tate. I just—I miss